


Lightning Before the Thunder

by carrot_png



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s03e18-21 Sozin's Comet, Stream of Consciousness, no beta - we die like lu ten, zuko suffers with amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:29:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27447913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrot_png/pseuds/carrot_png
Summary: When Zuko failed to redirect the lightning, it didn't just give his heart a shock -- not that Zuko would remember. He doesn't remember much of anything these days.
Relationships: Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), The Gaang & Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 237





	Lightning Before the Thunder

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a really quick story I thought up because I wanted an excuse to write amnesiac!Zuko. It didn't turn out how I originally planned and turned more into a stream of conscious type of deal. I apologize in advance if it makes no sense! I hope you enjoy it, regardless!

He was awoken by a distant, nagging feeling that something was very, very wrong. 

The air was humid and smothering and he felt claustrophobic and trapped. He didn’t think it was normal for people to wake up feeling as if they were suffocating. 

Each breath that he pulled into his lungs stroked the red hot coals that settled in his lungs. An unfamiliar fire whispered, it’s flames burning through his veins, pulsing to a point just above his navel. The fire was loud and thrumming with energy, crackling deep in his bones and burning him from the inside out.

He couldn’t breath, why couldn’t he breath— 

Lightning flashes and he closes his eyes.

He was awoken by a distant, nagging feeling that something was very, very wrong. He didn’t know what it was. 

He was in a bed, a warm bed with a red canopy. Somewhere in his mind, he knew that it was familiar and mundane, but for some reason, it makes him cringe in unease.

He closes his eyes tightly against the deafening pang that is thundering through his head. It resonates from the burning, red hot  _ thing _ bundled up tightly in his chest. He feels weighed down, like hands are pressing down on his ribs and his shoulders and his closed eyelids. The pit of his stomach twists and groans like all of the sores and pains and the coiling energy in his veins is it’s burden to bear. 

His hand trembles as he brings a shaky finger to the spot on his stomach. He feels nothing but the lick of flames beneath his fingertips, the crackle of energy sinking down into his bones with no way out. He doesn’t think he was expecting anything different, but for some reason, it makes his chest tighten anyways. He doesn’t understand why.

The silence is as oppressive as the heat in the room. 

He doesn’t like the silence, it hurts.

A single tear rolls down his cheek, burning like boiling water. 

Lightning flashes and he closes his eyes.

He was awoken by the distant, nagging feeling that something was very, very wrong. He doesn’t know what it is. He feels like he should know and that bothers him.

He feels like he’s looking at a painting he’s never seen before— staring at the depths of the shadows and highlights, leaning close enough to see every careful brush stroke— and being asked to spot what is different. It eats away at his thoughts like a fire consuming a scrap of paper, burning red hot and painful. 

They are all crowded around him, looking at him like some sort of stranger. Maybe he is a stranger? He sure feels like a stranger even in his own skin. 

The fire leaps through his chest, burning through his veins and crackling at his fingertips like they were nothing more than a dry log in the heat of summer. 

There are hands on his shoulders and blue eyes bore into his and he’s reminded of an ocean he’s never seen. Deep and dark and unforgiving in it’s wrath but cool and calm and soothing.

“Zuko… do you know where you are?”

He’s burning, he’s sure of it. The fire is crackling across his skin and smoke fills his lungs and he can’t breathe. The longer he stares, the more he feels like he should know where he is, that he should recognize the hands holding him down and the blue, blue eyes staring into his own — but it’s all behind a choking fire burning in his head that crackles and snaps and consumes every thought.

He can’t breathe.

Why won’t the fire let him breath —

Lightning flashes and he closes his eyes.

He was awoken by a distant, nagging feeling that something was very, very wrong. He doesn’t know what it is. He feels like he should know and that bothers him. He feels like he’s been here before.

The world is spinning and he imagines lightning arcing through the air, so close it singes his skin, and he waits for the crack and boom of thunder and wonders why it’s so quiet.

His face burns with a dull aching itch, like when he’s sat out in the sun for too long and his skin absorbs too much of the heat and it’s dry and stretched thin. It’s only after a gentle touch, pulling at his fingers, that he realizes the only thing burning him are his own too warm hands. 

He looks up into the kind, gentle eyes of the old man sitting in front of him. One of his hands is cradled in each of the old man’s, in a hold that’s strangely soft and gentle. 

Was he expecting anything else than the careful touch?

His eyes never leave the old man’s as he guides his hands to rest on his knees. The old man’s hands are warm, like the embers of a dying fire and he thinks about the fire currently consuming his insides. 

The old man must see something in his expression because he gives his wrists a little squeeze and takes a deep breath. 

His gaze shoots back to their hands but before he can think about the crackle of lightning, the old man squeezes again. 

Squeeze, deep breath in. Squeeze, deep breath out. 

It is a careful pattern. It is like the beat to a forgotten song. 

The fire in him is soothed by the deep breathing, the flames don’t smother him and the smoke doesn’t choke him.

He is reminded of something. It sits on the tip of his tongue and just out of his mind’s reach. He sees it in the old man’s eyes, but he can’t quite place it.

The old man must sense his struggle, because he looks at him with pity — something the fire dancing in his chest seems to think is far too familiar to be comforting. 

“Come back to us, Zuko.” The old man whispers. 

Lightning flashes and he closes his eyes.

He was awoken by a distant, nagging feeling that something was very, very wrong. He doesn’t know what it is. He feels like he should know and that bothers him. He feels like he’s been here before. He knows he’s been here before.

He was… doing something this time. His stomach swirls with a too full discomfort and his tongue clings to the remnants of something sweet and smokey. 

He’s seated at a table with an absolute feast laid out on the long slab of wood. There are people at the table — strangers, he thinks. They all sit close to one another, leaning over each other to reach plates of food with friendly ease. Maybe he’s the stranger?

His eyes travel from one person to the next as he gapes at them blankly. To his right there is a stout old man with wrinkles at the corners of his eyes from too much laughter, a bald child with blue arrows on his skin and soulful eyes that seem much too old compared to his youthful looks, and a girl with tan skin and blue eyes as deep and fierce as the ocean. To his left is a young child with milky pale eyes and rough hands that bang on the table top in her fit of laughter, a kind looking girl with short brown hair and a fierce posture that seems both open and guarded, and a young man with skin just as dark and eyes just as blue as the girl he sits across from.

These people are no strangers, not to one another. They are all close in a way that isn’t crowding or suffocating and even though his brain is screaming for him to pull away, for some reason, it feels right to stay.

Family. Fire and electricity. Burning, consuming pain — no. Compassion. 

Happiness. Relief. 

Protection. 

Forgiveness. 

Warmth, if you are a part of it. 

Why does it feel like he should be?

Lightning flashes and he closes his eyes.

He was awoken by a distant, nagging feeling that something was very, very wrong. He doesn’t know what it is. He feels like he should know and that bothers him. He feels like he’s been here before. He knows he’s been here before. The feeling echoes in the center of his chest and he clings to it.

He glances around the room, making a list of observations automatically like it’s second nature. Maybe it is second nature? Has he done this before?

The curtains are red, pulled back to let the afternoon sunlight filter into the room. He’s breathing in the soft scent of jasmine, not the smoke of a dying fire. The cup in his hands is warm — it will stay that way, he knows for reasons that he does not know. 

A stout man with kind eyes sits across from him, pouring tea into his own cup with careful hands. He doesn’t know the man, but he thinks the burning embers of the peaceful fire in his chest used to. The old man looks content with his tea, and he can’t help but feel a little content himself.

The man takes a careful sip of his tea and his lips upturn in a way that looks unnatural but somehow rests peacefully on his old face. His own face feels funny. It twitches and falters and his skin stretches and pulls on his left cheek and then he realizes he’d forgotten what a smile was. 

How could he have forgotten what a smile was? 

Lightning flashes and he closes his eyes.

He was awoken by a distant, nagging feeling that something was very, very wrong. He doesn’t know what it is. He feels like he should know and that bothers him. He feels like he’s been here before. He knows he’s been here before. The feeling echoes in the center of his chest and he clings to it. A fire burns in his chest and it is comforting. 

There are distant voices, nagging just like the feeling in his head. He keeps his eyes closed, listening. Something tells him he shouldn’t speak. Something reminds him of the last time he spoke up… he grasps for it but it vanishes not a moment later into his empty memory. 

“There’s still hope. We just have to give him a little more time —”

“Time isn’t helping him. We just have to face the truth —”

“Maybe if you just tried healing him again —”

“There’s nothing left to heal! Don’t you think I’ve tried?!”

The voices aren’t happy. The voices sound angry and the fire in his chest leaps at the thought. He wants them to stop. He’s burning from the inside out and he can’t smother the fire on his own. 

A door slams and energy jolts through his body with a sudden, white hot accuracy that he can’t redirect. 

Lightning flashes and he closes his eyes.

He was awoken by a distant, nagging feeling that something was very, very wrong. He doesn’t know what it is. He feels like he should know and that bothers him. He feels like he’s been here before. He knows he’s been here before. The feeling echoes in the center of his chest and he clings to it. A fire burns in his chest and it is comforting. He feels the energy of the sun reaching out to him and he reaches back to it. 

The warmth of the midafternoon sun wraps him in it’s warm and gentle embrace. 

He looks away from the ripples in the pond to the boy that is sitting next to him. Something about the tan of his skin and the blue of his eyes is familiar, but he can’t put his finger on it. 

However, the tear rolling down his cheek seems entirely foreign and out of place. 

He’s not sure what the feeling that washes over him is, but he reaches out and his fingers gently brush against the blue tunic the other is wearing, “Are you okay?” He asks, his voice hoarse and different and it’s just another thing that’s wrong that he doesn’t have an explanation for. 

“O-oh!” The boy sits up more, brushing the back of his hand against his cheek to wipe away the stray tear, “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine. I just miss a good friend of mine. The turtleducks remind me of him…” He picks apart some of the bread in his lap and tosses it to the turtleducks in the pond. “He’s been away for a while now and no one is sure when he’ll come back.” 

“Oh…” he looks away, eyes following the ripple along the surface of the water caused by the turtle ducks. It feels like the ripple makes waves in his own empty memory. “That’s rough, buddy.” 

The boy lets out a watery, hiccup of a laugh, “Yeah. Yeah, it is.” He agrees.


End file.
